


blessed are the forgetful

by palechubs



Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Angst, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind AU, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Relationship Study, Slow Burn, baseball team doctor seungcheol, law professor jeonghan, this is kind of (a lot) self-indulgent sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:07:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24500557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palechubs/pseuds/palechubs
Summary: And the stranger exits his apartment just like that, leaving Jeonghan to gawk at the closed door for a couple of seconds before he regains his composure. He’s left wondering exactly how he got into this situation in the first place: alone, in a stranger’s apartment with a half-finished bowl of home-cooked hangover soup in front of him. He’s left thinking about awkward silences turned into comfortable ones, long, dark lashes and the curve of a strong back. Because Jeonghan hates cliches. He doesn’t date, and doesn’t do flings. But right now, all he can think about is how there’s something about this stranger that makes Jeonghan want to gravitate towards him, even if he has to sacrifice some of the unspoken rules he’s strictly abided by for so long in the process.Blessed are the forgetful, for they get the better even of their blunders.
Relationships: Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups/Yoon Jeonghan, Hong Jisoo | Joshua & Yoon Jeonghan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've recently found myself with an abundance of free time so i decided to open this draft i've had sitting in my google docs for probably two years now and just start to write...... i got a little carried away and now it's turned from a tiny self-indulgent document about law professor jeonghan to this little old thing -- hopefully i'll be able to finish this LOL
> 
> before u start reading i just want to apologize because i really know nothing about baseball besides little tidbits of information that i've gathered from watching and re-watching reply 1997. if u catch any inaccuracies please feel free to yell at me in the comments.
> 
> regardless, i hope u enjoy this fic! i've wanted to write something like this for a while and it's been too long since i've written something related to svt :,) have fun reading!

➳

There are very few things in the world that Jeonghan hates more than cliches. So, when he stops in front of a happy-hour sign on his way home from work, Jeonghan fully expects his night to go exactly this way: he will walk into this bar alone, get drunk because he deserves to treat himself for that one bad day he had back in May, and then he’ll finish off by stumbling out of the bar, alone, before the bartender’s last call. 

This is, of course, simply to avoid checking off the “meeting a stranger at a bar and falling in love” box on Jeonghan’s list of _Clichés that I Will Never Have to Come Across in My Life Ever_.

As he walks in, Jeonghan immediately notices the group of university students noisily crowding around the corner of the bar. It’s the sound of glass slamming against a marble countertop as the students eagerly take shots that tells him to take a seat at the stool farthest from the large group. If he were just a few years younger and hadn’t decided to lecture law at a local university fresh out of professional school, maybe he wouldn’t have been so avoidant, but Jeonghan stares into the glazed-over eyes of one hundred twenty-somethings as he waxes poetic about criminal procedure five days a week, so he feels like he deserves a break.

Jeonghan realizes then that he probably shouldn’t have walked into a bar that was just barely off campus, but it’s also nearing the end of the semester; he’s tired, and he’d like to think that he assigns enough work to his students that he’s pretty much guaranteed that he won’t run into one of them tonight. Jeonghan knows he’s slightly overdressed compared to _literally everyone else_ in this bar, what with his collared shirt, tailored suit pants and all, but hey _,_ he’s a young professional. He’ll never admit it out loud, but Jeonghan’s life has revolved around his work for the better part of the last three years. 

The bartender interrupts before Jeonghan can start to think about the pile of term papers collecting dust at his apartment that he has yet to grade, setting a cold beer down directly in front of him. Once he turns around, Jeonghan gags at himself. _It’s a Friday night and you’re sitting alone in a just-barely-off-campus bar, thinking about work, has it really come to this?_ He grabs the drink and takes a healthy swig, wiping the condensation that had transferred to his palm against the fabric of his pants. Jeonghan briefly considers pulling out his phone and calling Jisoo over to join him, but then he remembers that the guy’s been sleeping before nine every night for the past month just so he can get an early start to the day. Jeonghan will spare him, but just this once.

(“Are you serious?” Jeonghan had asked him when Jisoo brought his new regime up over a game of Monopoly.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Jisoo grinned. Realizing that neither of them had made a move in the past 15 minutes, he folded the game board up neatly and pushed it back into the box. “It’s important to listen to your body’s needs once in a while, you know.”

“Save some responsibility for the rest of us, why don’t you,” Jeonghan groaned into his hands. “And anyways, you would know better than anyone else that I haven’t slept before one since at least our freshman year of high school, and I’m still doing fine!”

“Right, but it wouldn’t hurt to take a break once in a while,” Jisoo had hummed, shifting into a more comfortable position. “Stop drowning yourself in work. Your students won’t riot if you hand their papers back just a couple of days late, and it’s not like all those academic journals you submit to will suddenly become irrelevant in a week.”

“Well, this _is_ my job, Jisoo-ya,” Jeonghan had responded calmly with the grin of someone who was definitely _not_ going to listen to his best friend’s advice. “I think I’m kind of obligated to not slack off.”

“Just take it into consideration.” Jisoo had rolled his eyes then, and lightly pushed Jeonghan’s shoulder.

Jeonghan had nodded in understanding, but that night he had ended up grading papers in his apartment and editing lecture slides until he passed out at 2, anyways.)

Someone approaches Jeonghan then, snapping him out of his thoughts, and when Jeonghan turns to acknowledge the six-foot-tall presence next to him; he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t damn relieved to finally see someone who wasn’t a wildly inebriated university student flailing around on the bar floor.

The stranger is wearing a white shirt that’s clearly been ironed, tucked into a clean pair of straight-leg jeans, and well, Jeonghan suddenly feels much better about his state of dress. The man is holding a glass of whiskey that’s more parts ice than alcohol, and when the dim lighting of the bar hits his face as he grabs a seat next to Jeonghan, Jeonghan’s suddenly caught off-guard by the long, dark lashes that cast shadows on the man’s cheeks.

 _Well shit,_ Jeonghan thinks, and brings his beer to his lips. 

“You know, I was beginning to wonder when I would see someone that didn’t look like they just turned legal a week ago here,” The stranger grins, all pink-gummed and warm. He messes with a loose thread hanging from his sleeve, pulling at it until it’s long enough to wrap around his index finger.

“Are you implying that I’m old?” Jeonghan laughs and places a hand dramatically on his chest, allowing himself to pout slightly. “Normally I would say the same for you, but you do realize that there’s a university campus two minutes away from here, right?” 

“Hm, I guess that would explain it, then,” The stranger hums. He shifts ever so slightly, letting some of the distance between the two of them close. Jeonghan thinks it’s really too unfair how the man manages to look so _sculpted_ even in the dim lighting of the bar. 

“To be honest, I don’t really know what I’m doing here. Had a stressful day at work, so I called a cab and asked him to take me anywhere, as long as it was somewhere that served alcohol. Twenty minutes later and I’m dropped off here, watching a bunch of kids take shots.” The guy punctuates his sentence with a _giggle_ , and Jeonghan curses his weak heart, and the heat that’s beginning to take form inside of his stomach.

 _Get a grip,_ Jeonghan kindly reminds himself, before pushing himself forward in his seat, letting their knees touch. Normally he’d preoccupy himself with his drink, filling awkward silences with slow sips of whatever his choice alcohol of the night was, but somehow, Jeonghan had already managed to finish off his beer. He’s already beginning to feel a pleasant buzz in the back of his head, and his cheeks are definitely warmer than they had been when he first walked in.

“What about you, what brings you to this less-than-fine establishment?” The stranger asks, pulling Jeonghan back to reality. He’s fiddling with his drink as well, smiling at Jeonghan, corners of his mouth slightly upturned as he runs his index finger along the rim of his glass. 

“You’re gonna have to get more drinks in me before I answer that question,” Jeonghan smiles. He lets his gaze fall downwards, and notices how the cuffs of the stranger’s sleeves have pushed slightly upwards, against the friction of the bar.

It’s not like Jeonghan’s particularly guarded or anything ( _he is, who is he kidding_ ), but to be fair, it’s not every day that someone with criminally long eyelashes and sent-from-God forearms decides to sit next to him at a bar. For someone who has such a visceral dislike for cliches, Jeonghan’s night was starting to shape up to be something straight out of a Netflix Original -- he figured it was just his job to avoid the inevitable for as long as he possibly could.

“I’ll take you up on that, then,” The man hums, waving over the bartender. “Another beer for him, please.” His eyes flash over to meet Jeonghan’s, lashes fluttering.

“Should I talk to fill the silence while I buy you drinks, or are we just going to sit here and look at each other all night?” The man questions, dark eyes reflecting the artificial glow of a TV that’s no doubt broadcasting a sports game no one is paying attention to. The bartender walks up to them then, handing him Jeonghan’s second beer of the night, and the stranger slides the drink across the bar.

The glass lands perfectly in front of Jeonghan’s right hand. Though, he notes that there’s not much distance between the two of them to cover, anyways.

“You could start with your name,” Jeonghan segues, sipping at his drink.

“That’s a little intimate, don’t you think?” The stranger smiles. “You can tell a lot about a person just from their name. Do a quick Google Search and everything about them is laid out in front of you with the click of a button. I’ll tell you anything else you want to know, but I want to save the formalities for later.” He lets the back of his hand brush against Jeonghan’s, and holds it there.

Something akin to _want_ threatens to push up from Jeonghan’s stomach into his throat, and well, so much for his plan to leave the bar alone tonight. Jeonghan leans closer, watching tanned skin push against white fabric as his company lifts his drink to full, pink lips.

“So, what exactly has you so stressed that you’ve found yourself sitting next to me on a Friday night?” 

On a regular day, Jeonghan probably would have made some stupid retort about how he never implied that there would be a _later_ for the two of them and let the stranger sit there and squirm for a just bit longer -- but he’s had two beers already -- and Jeonghan’s slightly-impaired sense of judgement has him sitting next to a very attractive stranger at a bar, sounding more like a job interviewer than a smooth-talking casanova, instead.

Because Jeonghan _hates_ cliches, but he’ll be damned if this man doesn’t take him home tonight.

“Ah, I work as a team doctor in the KBO League,” He smiles, clearly satisfied with Jeonghan’s question. “One of the players in our starting rotation aggravated an old shoulder injury last week, and the responsibility is falling on me to make sure he’s fully recovered before the start of the regular season.”

“Fancy baseball doctor?” Jeonghan questions, suddenly hyper-aware of heat radiating from the point at which the backs of their hands touch.

 _Though with those arms, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if he had told me that he played for the team, instead._ Jeonghan thinks, then mentally slaps himself for the thought.

“Something like that,” The stranger shrugs, “I played in high school. I was going to go pro, but my parents were dead-set on me pursuing a career path with a little more job security. This was our compromise.”

Jeonghan hums. “And you were okay with that?”

“Not at first. Most of my teenage arguments with my parents had something to do with my future,” The stranger laughs, letting his head fall back. 

“In the end, though, I think it was the right decision to make. Don’t get me wrong, I was a killer second baseman back in high school!” He wags a finger at Jeonghan and continues, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “I probably would have eventually made it into the league. But, I’m fine with the way things turned out. Sports medicine isn’t all that bad, and this way, I still get to run into some of the guys from high school that did end up going pro.”

Jeonghan thinks the universe _must_ be giving him some sort of karmic retribution for all of the dumb cliches he’s managed to avoid in his thirty years of being alive, because he’s sitting slightly buzzed in a bar teeming with obnoxiously drunk university students, knocking his knees against a stranger who’s comfortably filling awkward silences for him -- and somehow he feels like this is where he’s supposed to be, despite his unfulfilled grading obligations at home.

It’s the most normal Jeonghan’s felt in months.

“Now you have to return the favor,” The stranger says, “and tell me what you do.”

“You know the university nearby, the one that’s procuring the next generation of drunken idiots?” Jeonghan gestures at a kid who had just walked straight into the opposite end of the bar, rubbing his ribs in defeat as his friends pointed and laughed. “I lecture law there. Went straight into teaching after law school.”

“Law, huh,” The man states. “Well, you did look rather put-together and intimidating, even from the back. I can’t say I’m too surprised that you turned out to be an academic.”

“Hmph,” Jeonghan huffs, placing a hand on the back of his neck. “Usually I get the obligatory you-look-way-too-young-to-be-a-professor-of-law look from people I meet, or I get lectured on how actually _practicing_ law is so much cooler, and pays so much better than teaching it does. You’re no fun.”

“Fine, I’ll bite,” The stranger laughs. “Why’d you decide to teach, then?”

“I decided it would be too unfortunate if my genius were to be entirely dedicated to criminal prosecution or criminal defense, so imparting pieces of my wisdom on young law students, and then leaving it up to them to distribute it evenly among our great legal system was the obvious choice to make,” Jeonghan says matter-of-factly, laughing when the stranger’s face goes from mild surprise to complete and utter shock.

“I’m kidding! Honestly, I poured my entire soul into the last year of law school, and threw myself into studying for the bar immediately after.” Jeonghan continues. “I don’t exactly remember when I made the decision, just that somewhere along the line my priorities changed and I decided not to practice.”

“You don’t remember?” The stranger questions.

“If overworking was an Olympic sport, I’d be a gold medal athlete! I don’t remember a lot of things,” Jeonghan says flippantly, (if Jisoo were here, he’d have promptly pinched Jeonghan in the arm for that statement). “Either way, I really can’t imagine myself doing anything but teaching now. My work ethic and a courtroom would have been a dangerous combination.”

“Yeah, I know a little something about that,” The stranger grins. “With sports medicine, I was constantly shouldering my own burdens and pressures from my parents, so I was always working two times as hard to overcompensate for that in med school and residency. Things ended up turning out fine, but you can’t help but think about all of the times that things could’ve gone catastrophically wrong, you know?”

“Yeah,” Jeonghan hums, “exactly. Plus, I’ve just never liked leaving things unfinished. Twenty years ago it might’ve been cute when I was a little elementary schooler absorbed in an incomplete jigsaw puzzle, but trying to woo a top law firm while simultaneously dealing with an exam that determines the entire trajectory of my future, that’s another story.”

“Oh, for sure,” The stranger agrees. “Here’s to less-than-healthy work ethics, then.” He raises his glass to Jeonghan and they drink.

The cheap beer is like humid summer heat down Jeonghan’s throat, stifling, yet somehow comforting in the way it leaves a slightly bitter aftertaste in his mouth and warmth coursing through his veins.

And if Jeonghan lets the stranger curl his fingers around his wrist and lead him out of the bar at 3 A.M., a heavy palm pressed against the small of his back, well, then his 30 year-old grudge against terrible cliches will be none the wiser.

➳

“Why is it,” Jeonghan groans to no one in particular, “that when you post a 40-minute online lecture of you literally giving away the answers to _every single exam question_ to your students, they will still decide not to watch it, and then turn around and cheat on said exam?” He presses two fingers to his right temple and draws a large X on the answer sheet sitting in front of him.

“You begin to wonder how these people spend three years studying the pursuit of justice and truth, and yet are still dishonest in every other aspect of their lives? ” A voice calls from behind the doorway of Jeonghan’s office, followed by a belated knock.

Standing there is Jeonghan’s favorite professor from law school, who had taught a course on Korean Legal History that was admittedly not all that interesting, but Jeonghan had never liked him for his ability to regurgitate convoluted stories of the past, anyways. Nam was a little bit ancient, started practicing law back when Jeonghan was still in diapers, and at his prime, served as a criminal prosecutor for Seoul’s Central District Court. He was blunt and no-bullshit in the way you’d expect any veteran of the courtroom to be. 

And Jeonghan had imprinted on him, because he seemed like the complete antithesis of a graduate student with no clear idea of a future. 

“Professor,” Jeonghan acknowledges, standing up and motioning for Nam to take a seat. 

“I thought I would stop by and visit,” Nam says, waving a hand at the empty chair pulled out in front of Jeonghan’s desk. “But Jeonghan, really, we’ve been colleagues for four years now. It’s about time you started treating me like one, hm?”

“Well, forgive me if I’m hesitant to drop the formalities with you, Professor,” Jeonghan grins. “After all, I spent many hours in your office neglecting my readings and griping about grade deflation -- plus, I’m sure the memory of me falling asleep in the middle of your lecture is still plenty fresh in your mind!”

“You were the only student of mine who was brave enough to fall asleep smack in the front row, and then try and argue that your eyes were just taking a prolonged blink,” Nam replies pointedly. He reaches for the first paper on the pile sitting atop Jeonghan’s desk, and clicks his tongue.

“Tactical considerations for a witness impeachment,” The professor reads. “You’re teaching this course at a faster pace than I did. Have your students not complained?”

“If they had any concerns they would’ve voiced them directly to me,” Jeonghan dismisses Nam’s question with a wave of his hand. “Besides, I thought very deeply about this when I was drafting the syllabus, you know! I put my law school self into their shoes. If I thought he could handle a few extra readings a night, I saw no problem with teaching the course at an accelerated pace.”

Nam laughs and walks over to Jeonghan’s side of the desk, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“You used to waste my time during office hours by sitting there and complaining about how your schedule was impossible to manage, but then you’d turn around and hand in one of the best papers, or highest scoring exams among your peers anyways.” Nam says lightly. “You were one of my best students, Jeonghan. I always liked how you were a kid that didn’t bother wasting your time with things you took no interest in, and saved it instead for things that you were truly passionate about.”

“I always thought it was unfortunate that you decided not to become a trial lawyer, but you work well here,” Nam continues, handing Jeonghan back his paper and starting towards the door. “You make an excellent professor, kid. I’m glad some of your legal acumen and initiative will still make their way into our courts, one way or another.”

“And Jeonghan,” He adds, leaning against the doorframe. “You make sure you find something that makes you happy.”

There’s hesitance in the way Nam phrases that last sentence, like he’s stepping around something, Jeonghan reads, but before he can even think to question him about it, the professor’s already halfway down the hallway.

➳

Jeonghan wakes up under cotton sheets, and on top of a pillow so soft he thinks it’s inches from melting into the mattress beneath him. His hangover is this dull ache that presses against his temples and curses the sunlight that’s streaming in from the open window beside him, and Jeonghan’s too busy addressing his body’s protests to the slightly irresponsible choices he made the night before to really take note of his surroundings.

It isn’t until he rubs at his eyes and raises his arms in a futile attempt to block out the sunlight beating down on his face, that he remembers where he is. 

_Yoon Jeonghan, you’ve really let yourself go,_ he thinks to himself, before forcing himself into an upright position. Thankfully, he didn’t drink enough last night to warrant having to deal with a sent-from-hell hangover, so although his head is pounding a little bit and he wants nothing more right now than to drown himself in greasy food and cup ramen, Jeonghan’s not in that much worse of a state than he normally is when he wakes up.

No, the real issue -- and the figurative elephant in the room right now -- is that this is the first time that Jeonghan has woken up in a bed other than his own for _years,_ as far as he can remember. Because Jeonghan doesn’t date. He doesn’t do flings, even, because he doesn’t see a need for them. He throws himself into his work and leaves room for little else, because he’s finally at a point in his life where he’s doing something that he _knows_ he loves -- why would he jeopardize that sense of security for things that are more likely than not to be no more than temporary distractions?

Jeonghan may be a little hungover, but he kind of feels like he’s broken many of the unspoken rules he’d established for himself in the process of growing up and navigating whatever the hell it means to be a functional, working adult.

Because Jeonghan spends more nights eating dinner in his office than he does at his own dinner table. He prioritizes the drafting of lecture slides and journal submissions over sleep, and he certainly doesn’t go home with strangers he meets in trashy bars that are just barely off-campus. Strangers who don’t give away their names to people they’ve just met. 

That’s just _not_ something Jeonghan does. He’s spent his entire life trying to avoid cliches like these, and he can’t shake the feeling of unease that finds itself automatically beginning to take form in the pit of his stomach. Everything about the situation he’s found himself in feels foreign and wrong, but the weirdest thing about it is that in between the knots of discomfort, there are feelings of contentment and collectedness, too. Like some small part of his body holds no regrets for the choices he made last night.

And that’s the thing: Jeonghan _doesn’t_ think he regrets them. He’s suddenly very grateful that the bed is empty next to him, though it’s clear that the vacant space _was_ occupied by someone at some point -- because the revelation that Jeonghan’s not completely outraged at his choices, even in his now-sober state, is a revelation that he really doesn’t want to deal with right now. 

So, he bites the bullet. Gets out of bed and walks through an apartment that’s completely unfamiliar to him, until he finds himself in the kitchen, facing a backside that he’s intimately acquainted himself with in the past twelve hours.

“Did you sleep well?” The stranger from last night asks, busying himself with a pot on the stove. He doesn’t turn around, just stirs at the boiling broth in front of him. Jeonghan can’t see his face, but there’s something strangely comforting about the black of his hair, still slightly mussed from sleep, and the way the muscles in his forearms tense under the same golden sunlight that had given Jeonghan’s head hell when he first woke up.

“Mm,” Jeonghan hums, still trying to make sense of the twenty different emotions that are working his brain into overtime right now. 

The stirring slows, and there’s a tiny _click_ as the stranger turns down the gas on the stove. He grabs at ingredients sitting in little white bowls beside him, adds _soondae,_ scallions, and cabbage into the broth, and places a lid on top of the boiling stew before finally turning to face Jeonghan.

“You’re making hangover soup,” Jeonghan says dumbly, because _fuck_ , how much more domestic can this get? 

“I’m making hangover soup,” The stranger echoes while grinning, “it wasn’t like I was just going to kick you out of my apartment with a couple thousand won for the taxi fare home, or anything. Though, I do have to run to a physical therapy session with one of our players pretty soon.” He picks up his phone from where it sits face-down on the kitchen counter, clicks it open presumably to check the time, and then pockets the device.

Jeonghan doesn’t say anything, just lets his gaze fall to the fresh hickies lining the stranger’s neck and collarbones. The man notices, and the smirk he gives Jeonghan in return has Jeonghan figuring that he’s probably sporting a couple of his own. He makes a mental note to buy concealer on the way home, because there’s no way he’s showing up to work on Monday in a scarf or a turtleneck. Sure, his students may be dumb, but they surely weren’t born yesterday -- and he’d very much like to make it through the school year without any unnecessary speculations on his _love life_.

“Head bothering you?” The stranger questions, doing that thing again where he somehow manages to perfectly fill _all_ of the awkward silences between them. He takes the lid off the pot, letting the smell of chili paste and umami broth fill the tiny kitchen, and reaches for a bowl from the cabinets above him.

“Not that much,” Jeonghan says as the stranger generously spoons the soup into a bowl, handing it to Jeonghan once it’s filled. “I don’t drink to get wasted, after all.”

“That’s good,” He laughs, and motions for Jeonghan to sit down at a table placed in the corner of the kitchen. He grabs two pairs of metal chopsticks and two spoons, setting them down on the table between them. “Though, I figured the soup would help anyways.”

“No, yeah, thanks,” Jeonghan says, flashing him a smile. He blows on a spoonful of the soup, then sips at it carefully. “It’s really good!”

“Thanks,” The man says, before digging in himself. “I actually find myself going out quite often, but I don’t drink to get wasted, just like you said. I’ve always felt like conversation flows more easily when it’s made between a couple of beers.”

“I get that,” Jeonghan agrees, “there’s a strange sense of sentimentality that comes with sharing a drink with someone.” _Do you drink to pick up guys like me, too?_ He wonders, before he can stop himself.

“For the record, I don’t bring pretty academics home with me every time I go out to drink,” The stranger jokes, and Jeonghan dies a little inside, because he’s supposed to be the observant one here. “Only once in a while.”

“Do you refuse to tell all of these pretty academics your name, or just me?” Jeonghan questions, chewing on a piece of _soondae_. “Frankly, I think it’s just a little unfair that you’ve been inside me, and yet I still don’t know your name!”

“That’s fair,” The stranger replies, licking at his lips. He reaches for a bag at the foot of the table, and procures a white business card. He hands it to Jeonghan, then gets up, clearing his bowl and utensils before placing them in the sink.

“Take a look for yourself,” He calls, leaving the kitchen. Jeonghan watches as he grabs his bag and heads for the front door, slipping on his jacket and shoes before turning to look at Jeonghan one last time. “I’m sorry, but I really do have to get to work. You’ll call me sometime, yeah?”

And the stranger exits his apartment just like that, leaving Jeonghan to gawk at the closed door for a couple of seconds before he regains his composure. He’s left wondering exactly how he got into this situation in the first place: alone, in a stranger’s apartment with a half-finished bowl of home-cooked hangover soup in front of him. He’s left thinking about awkward silences turned into comfortable ones, long, dark lashes and the curve of a strong back. Because Jeonghan hates cliches. He doesn’t date, and doesn’t do flings. But right now, all he can think about is how there’s _something_ about this stranger that makes Jeonghan want to gravitate towards him, even if he has to sacrifice some of the unspoken rules he’s strictly abided by for so long in the process. 

Jeonghan runs his finger along the smooth cardstock, and flips it over.

 **Choi Seungcheol,** it reads, in neat, serif letters.

“Nice to meet you, Seungcheol,” Jeonghan says, and something in the way the syllables fall out of his mouth is so foreign yet so familiar at the same time, that a part of Jeonghan actually _aches._

➳

Jeonghan is a freshly-turned 25 year-old when he finds himself in an obscenely large doctor’s office, wringing his hands nervously in his lap and refusing to make eye contact with the medical professional sitting directly in front of him. He looks at everything else in the room -- the large floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the expanse of Seoul below them, the sturdy, white desk in front of him, and the framed certificates lining rows and rows of the glass shelf beside him. 

“Jeonghan-ssi,” The doctor, Lee, calls out to him. His voice is steady, deep, and leaves Jeonghan seriously on edge.

“Dr. Lee,” Jeonghan responds, but he doesn’t dare look in his eyes. He focuses on the front of the doctor’s desk. Not a single fountain pen on the surface is out of place.

“If you have no last-minute reservations, we will move forward with the procedure scheduled for Friday of next week. I would like to go over expectations with you, briefly, before we conclude this appointment.” The doctor says. Jeonghan has a perfect view of his hands from here; they’re busily flipping through pages of a notepad.

“I have none, doctor,” Jeonghan says, running his right thumb against the skin of his left palm. His hands are impossibly sweaty.

“Then I will proceed,” Dr. Lee says steadily. “The procedure will take no longer than four hours, barring no major complications. As with any surgery, there are risks that I am legally required to inform you of, as you should know. Obviously, since we are operating on your brain, the risks are slightly greater than those associated with a simple surgery, like an appendectomy, say.”

Jeonghan nods. He knows he’s firm in his decision, but he just can’t find the right words to say right now.

“It’s possible that your brain will swell during the surgery. You may suffer seizures, a brain bleed, or have a stroke, and not make it off the operating table. With the area of the brain that we will be operating in, extreme memory loss is also a possibility.”

“Jeonghan-ssi, I am the only doctor in the world that can perform this operation. I have a ninety-five percent success rate. The vast majority of my patients leave satisfied with the outcome of their surgery. Still, I need you to be aware of these risks. I will ask you one last time, are you one-hundred percent willing to proceed with the operation?” Dr. Lee finishes. He turns a piece of paper towards Jeonghan and hands him a pen, motioning for him to sign at the bottom of the sheet.

 _I’m not supposed to be here,_ Jeonghan thinks. _I’m studying to be a lawyer, damn it! I’m supposed to be worrying about publishing to journals, studying for the bar, maybe even securing a clerkship for next year. Everything in my life is going in the right direction, except for this_ one _thing. I know I have to make a change. If it’s not going to come to me, I have to do it myself._

Jeonghan pauses, the pen millimeters away from the paper.

“Doctor, can you really do it? Can you really make me forget?” Jeonghan asks, fists tightly clenched in his lap. He feels a freight train of emotions rushing towards him, seconds from collision.

“You’ll feel as if you have woken up from an especially deep sleep, but of course, all of your memories will be erased,” Dr. Lee says. 

“How?” _God,_ how _did I get here,_ Jeonghan thinks.

“Do you have that box I asked you to bring today?” The doctor asks, and Jeonghan nods. He relaxes his fist and reaches for a cardboard box sitting at his feet. He picks it up and places it on the empty mahogany chair beside him, and returns to nervously wringing his hands. There are crescent-moon shaped indents on both of his palms.

“You filled that box with items associated with your love,” Dr. Lee points out, “The person that you are going to erase from your memory. I told you at your last appointment that your goal was to gather everything and place them into this box, so that no trace of your love is left anywhere. Do you believe that has been adequately done?”

“Yes,” Jeonghan means to say the word firmly, but it comes out much weaker.

“Then we will use these physical items on Friday to carefully weave an imaginary map of your love, using it to guide us through your memories so that we only delete the ones that are necessary. If you really have filled the box adequately, you will forget. Any other questions, Jeonghan-ssi? Though, I would advise you not to worry too much -- I assure you that my team and I are very good at what we do.” 

_I know I have to make a change. If it’s not going to come to me, I have to do it myself._

“No, nothing further, doctor,” Jeonghan breathes, “thank you.”

“Of course,” The doctor smiles, “As I am with all of my patients, I do regret that your love has reached a point where you feel like this operation is your only option. Your box is bigger than most that come in; you must have made many good memories before things turned bad. But, nonetheless, it seems that you are firm in your decision to erase your memories. I acknowledge that. I will see you again right before we operate on Friday.”

“Thank you.” The tip of the pen meets thick, white paper. Jeonghan signs, and looks straight into the doctor’s eyes for the first time since he stepped into the office over an hour ago. He’s sure of this.

Satisfied with Jeonghan’s signature, Dr. Lee gathers his papers and notepad, stuffing them into a manila file before getting up and shaking Jeonghan’s hand. His grip is firm, steady. The doctor lets go after a second, and as he reaches for Jeonghan’s box and carries it towards the door, Jeonghan sees a flash of white sitting on top of all the objects that have the box filled to the brim.

A business card, made of smooth, white cardstock.

 **Choi Seungcheol,** it reads, in neat, serif letters. 

“Goodbye, Seungcheol. I love you, but things have to change.” Jeonghan whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (sorry)
> 
> please leave kudos or a comment if u enjoyed this chapter!! i hope it didn't feel too rushed or too disjointed. and i hope u all are staying happy and healthy during these interesting times! i'll try and get the next chapter uploaded as soon as i can~ <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i'm back with another chapter! i kind of got carried away with this and ended up writing more than i meant to but oh well. i'm trying to establish a litttttttle bit of background so hopefully by the end of this chapter things become a tiny bit clearer!
> 
> also, i'm sorry in advance

➳

Pierre’s is this posh bar situated in the heart of Seoul, fifteen minutes away from Jeonghan’s university by taxi. It’s intimate, the lights always dimmed so you can never quite get a good look at the face of whoever you’re drinking with. The edge of the bar is lined with French boudoir chairs and velvet sofas, while large windows open the room up to a gorgeous view of downtown Seoul. A place like this is way above Jeonghan’s price point as a third year law student -- a single cocktail can cost upwards of 35,000 won, and all the seats are so plush he feels unworthy for even sitting on a barstool -- but there’s nowhere else in town that can get him drunk faster than this obnoxiously luxurious establishment can, and today Jeonghan needs to get wasted. So, he willfully ignores the fact that he’ll end the night with a gaping hole in his wallet, turns his chin up a little to try and at least look somewhat more like this bar’s wealthy clientele, and orders a whiskey.

Jeonghan’s halfway through his drink when Jisoo shows up, out of breath with his hair slightly mussed. He pulls this expensive-looking sheet of paper out of his bag and sits down at the seat next to Jeonghan’s with an ungraceful _plop_ , slamming his palm down on the bar in exasperation.

“Were you ever planning on telling me about this, or were you just going to wait until after you woke up from your surgery to go _oh, by the way Jisoo-ya, I had Seungcheol erased from my memory, so you can no longer mention him around me! Good luck staying friends with the two of us!”_ Jisoo exclaims in a terrible imitation of Jeonghan's voice, pressing the paper firmly into Jeonghan’s chest.

“What? _”_ Jeonghan deadpans, still trying to digest the sudden change in atmosphere. He grabs the sheet from Jisoo’s grip, turns it over, and starts reading.

 _You are receiving this letter because our system has identified that you are acquainted with both Choi Seungcheol and Yoon Jeonghan of Seoul, South Korea,_ the beginning of the letter reads. Jeonghan’s stomach begins to knot, because it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what all of this is about. 

_On Friday, November 12th of 2020, both Mr. Choi and Mr. Yoon will undergo procedures to erase their memories of one another. In order to ensure complete and full memory erasure, starting from the aforementioned date, you will be asked to refrain from mentioning anything that may trigger memory recall around the patients. We understand that this may come as a shock, nonetheless, our office asks for your complete cooperation in respecting the outcome of the procedure. We will follow up with this letter in person sometime in the twenty-four hours leading up to the operations, however, if there are any concerns or questions you would like to have addressed prior to then, we would be happy to answer them. You will find our contact information in the upper right margin of this letter._

_Regards,_

_Lacuna Inc._

“ _So?”_ Jisoo questions, “seriously, Jeonghan, when the fuck were you guys going to tell me about this? We were all together literally last weekend, and you guys didn’t even think to bring this up?”

Jeonghan rests his head on his arm, staring up at Jisoo silently while searching for something to say. He really does feel sorry about this all, despite all his attempts to drown his issues out with alcohol and work. Plus, now that the details of his operation have materialized in front of him on this stupid piece of paper, it kind of feels like he’s being forced to directly confront the reality of what his future is going to look like come Friday.

“We were going to tell you eventually...” Jeonghan says tentatively. A tiny voice in his head wonders how he’s supposed to face a future without Seungcheol, if he’s not even sure if he can live without him. He pauses, then chases the thought out by gulping down the last bit of his whiskey.

“We were waiting for the right time, and it just didn’t seem appropriate to bring it up then.”

“There’s never a _right time_ for telling your best friend that you’re going to erase his other best friend from your memory, Jeonghan,” Jisoo deadpans, “you should have just told me. Cheol, too.”

Jeonghan keeps staring. He thinks he’s never seen Jisoo this mad before. Even in the perpetually dark lighting of this too-fancy bar, he can see the rise and fall of Jisoo’s chest as his breath comes out in huffs.

“I’m sorry,” Jeonghan mutters into his now-empty glass, before waving the bartender over for another drink. There are businessmen and young professionals all around them, relaxing against velvet sofas and sipping on port wine. They’re all conversing easily, shoulders no longer filling out their tailored suits quite as well anymore as the tension in their joints disappear and make way for raucous laughter and shared jokes. Jeonghan wishes he could be like them, drinking for pleasure and not to forget.

“It’s _fine_ ,” Jisoo sighs, placing a hand on Jeonghan’s upper arm to steady him. “I’m just upset that neither of you felt like you could come to me about this.”

“I didn’t know things were that bad between the two of you.” He continues, staring at Jeonghan, who probably looks pitiful right now. “You guys seemed fine whenever we were together. Happy, even.”

“Hmm,” Jeonghan hums, swirling his glass in his hand and watching the ice cubes melt from the friction. “Well, we weren’t.”

He picks his head up then, tilting it upwards so he’s staring directly at a burgundy-colored light fixture that’s weakly illuminating the room.

“You’re really going to go through with it?” Jisoo questions. His grip on Jeonghan tightens, but even Jeonghan can detect the subtle layer of defeat in his voice, like Jisoo knows there’s no talking him out of his decision. 

“There’s no fixing us, Jisoo-ya,” Jeonghan says bitterly, left wondering again how he got himself into this mess. 

“Forgetting is the only way we can make things right again.”

➳

“Jisoo, I have done a very, _very_ bad thing,” Jeonghan announces as he lets himself into his best friend’s single-bedroom apartment, slipping out of his shoes and tossing the spare key Jisoo gave him for his birthday into a decorative glass bowl.

“Do we have to discuss the rules and responsibilities that come with having a key to my apartment again?” Jisoo calls from the kitchen. Jeonghan scoffs to himself when he hears the tap running, because it’s good that at least one out of the two of them cares about their health enough to not live off of microwaveable meals and takeout. 

“ _No,_ ” Jeonghan says, sitting down on Jisoo’s couch. He turns on the TV, which starts loudly playing a rerun of last week’s _Knowing Brothers._ Jeonghan thinks he couldn’t get any luckier, because a slightly-shitty variety show is exactly what he needs right now to distract him from his thoughts.

“Well, then why else have you so rudely invited yourself into my home for, at 12PM on a Saturday?” Jisoo questions, sitting down next to Jeonghan and throwing his legs over his coffee table. “I didn’t know you were capable of being conscious outside the hours of 2PM and 2AM.”

“Belittle me for my sleeping habits again, why don’t you,” Jeonghan says sarcastically, punching Jisoo in the upper arm. “I’ll have you know that I made a terrible decision last night, which requires your immediate assistance.”

Jisoo looks up and down at him then, calculating, in a manner not unlike how Jeonghan’s old criminal law professor used to analyze him whenever he was singled out to present case-in-chiefs during class.

He continues staring at Jeonghan in silence for a while, before something akin to recognition flashes in his eyes and he aggressively points a finger at Jeonghan. 

“ _You--,_ ” Jisoo starts, looking slightly offended, finger still waggling.

“I, what?” Jeonghan replies, “Use words, Jisoo, words.”

“ _You got laid last night,_ ” Jisoo nearly yells, and Jeonghan’s not sure if he should be proud of his best friend for being able to read him so well, or be angry at him for sounding so surprised. He settles on the latter.

“Would you _stop_ looking so enlightened?” Jeonghan says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “You make it sound like I’m a thirty year-old virgin, or something!”

“You might as well be!” Jisoo retorts, grinning evilly at Jeonghan. “When was the last time you -- law school? _Undergrad?_ ”

Jeonghan just stares at him in silence, clasping a hand over Jisoo’s mouth to shut him up. He figures that’s better than admitting out loud that he can’t remember the last time he went home with someone.

“Jeonghan,” Jisoo says sincerely, placing a strong hand on the offended man’s shoulder. “I’m very proud of you. This is our first step away from dying senile and alone!”

Jeonghan detects something else carefully hidden behind all of Jisoo’s light jabs and mock-surprise -- it’s small, barely noticeable, but he picks up on it nonetheless -- Jisoo is his best friend, after all, and Jeonghan _did_ spend the better half of the last five years under the impression that he would become a trial attorney, studying how to scrutinize people in a court of law. It sounds a little like pity, and the way Jisoo’s looking at him reminds Jeonghan of what Nam had looked like right before he rushed out of his office a week ago.

Jeonghan thought Nam had been stepping around something back then, and Jisoo sounded a little like he was stepping around something just then, too, but Jeonghan opts to swallow his suspicions. There are more pressing issues to discuss right now, anyways.

“I’m choosing to ignore your tasteless insults right now, because I really do desperately need your advice,” Jeonghan says, grabbing Jisoo’s TV remote and lowering the volume.

“Yeah?” Jisoo acknowledges, pulling his knees into his chest and shifting so that his body is completely facing Jeonghan.

“I met this guy at a bar last night,” Jeonghan says, and suddenly the business card he was given earlier starts feeling extremely heavy in the pocket of his jacket. “Which, as you know, is an extremely foreign concept to me despite my above-average looks and well-paying job.”

Jisoo scoffs, though not in disagreement, and motions for Jeonghan to continue.

“First of all, I feel like I’m obligated to tell you that this guy was probably the single most attractive human being I’ve ever come across in my life,” Jeonghan starts, lifting both his hands and pulling at his hair in mock-exasperation. “Perfectly styled hair, unfairly long lashes, and arms that looked like they came straight out of a Greek sculpture. One-hundred percent my type. It’s unfair that someone like that even exists in the same universe as us mortals.”

“So the dude is hot,” Jisoo states plainly, drumming his fingers on the side of his arm. “But I still don’t understand why you need my advice? Honestly, it was kind of about time you got around to sleeping with people again -- I thought you might have pledged celibacy without telling me or something.”

“That’s exactly the problem!” Jeonghan frowns, letting the childish side of him that he only shows to Jisoo come out. “Doing something like that is so out of character for me, and I don’t even think I regret it? I’m just mad that I did something so impulsive.”

“Well, you were going to have to let go of that all-work-no-play mindset of yours eventually,” Jisoo reasons, “If you don’t regret it, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? Sometimes it’s okay to fall out of routine, I’ve been trying to get you to do that for years.”

“Yeah,” Jeonghan agrees. It feels weird sitting here complaining to Jisoo, when normally the roles are reversed and Jeonghan’s the one listening and reciprocating. Helping others is fine, but when it comes to his own emotions, it’s always easier for Jeonghan to put walls up than to face them head-on. The last time he came to Jisoo for advice like this was probably in law school, when he was more parts stress than human. “I don’t know, it’s just weird. I had a lot of fun with him, and our conversations flowed so easily -- he was definitely more than just a good lay, and I think I want to see him again, but I also don’t want there to be strings attached. You don’t just stumble upon a guy like this in your normal day-to-day life, and have there not be a catch.”

“I don’t think it would hurt to try things out and see how they go,” Jisoo says earnestly. Jeonghan nods. He sticks his hand in the pocket of his jacket and thumbs at the piece of cardstock.

“You’ve earned the right to move on --,” Jisoo stumbles, then pauses as if he’s searching for the right thing to say. “-- from being so dedicated to work, and such. It’s alright if you make space for other things once in a while. You deserve to be happy, and if you think this guy can do that for you, don’t run away from him.”

Nam’s voice echoes in Jeonghan’s head, then; _You make sure you find something that makes you happy,_ and Jeonghan thinks his decision is made.

“Thanks, Jisoo-ya,” He says sincerely, smiling at his friend before standing up off the couch. The weight in his pocket suddenly doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.

 **[Yoon Jeonghan] [22:31:09]:** _Is this Choi Seungcheol?_

 **[Choi Seungcheol] [22:41:11]:** _Yes, who is this?_

 **[Yoon Jeonghan] [22:43:23]:** _We met at the bar last night._

 **[Choi Seungcheol] [22:44:30]:** _Oh! I was wondering when you’d text me. Sorry I left in such a hurry, but now that you know my name, I think it’s only fair that you give me yours, too._

 **[Yoon Jeonghan] [22:45:50]:** _It’s alright. I’m Jeonghan._

 **[Choi Seungcheol] [22:45:59]:** _Nice to meet you, Jeonghan._

➳

They fight for the last time in the spring of their sixth year together.

The funny thing is, Jeonghan used to love the spring. He loved falling asleep to rain in April next to the strong curve of Seungcheol’s back, and then waking up to soft sunshine. He loved how inconsistent the weather could be, warm in the morning, then cold at night, because it gave him an excuse to borrow Seungcheol’s jacket. He loved walking down roads littered pink with cherry blossom petals, holding Seungcheol’s hand. 

Now spring is sleeping alone and goosebumps lining bare arms. Jeonghan’s hand hasn’t been held for months.

Jeonghan thinks this argument, the _big_ one, was probably a long time coming. They’ve been quietly building up towards this since moving in together, which really has just been a lot of trying to understand each other in ways they no longer could, and trying to patch the wounds in their relationship that had already grown too big for repair. 

They sit at their dining table together, this tiny oak table from IKEA that only has enough room for two people. Jeonghan’s rice has already gone cold, his chopsticks sitting untouched next to his clenched fist. Seungcheol isn’t eating either; he just stares at the dish of fried kimchi in front of him, slightly burnt, because Jeonghan never did quite learn how to properly cook a meal. They both haven’t had much of an appetite lately, since anything they do together only ends in raised voices and slammed doors. All the fighting has left a bitter taste in Jeonghan’s mouth that he can’t chase away, no matter how hard he tries. 

“I don’t understand,” Seungcheol sucks in a breath, clutching a metal spoon tightly in his hand. “How we’ve gotten to this point.”

Even when they’re on the edge of a cliff, just millimeters away from falling down into nothingness, Seungcheol is the first to break silences between the two of them.

“What is there to understand?” Jeonghan says in return, watching his knuckles turn white. “All we do is fight. We fight about my job, we fight about yours, we fight about the past, the present, and the future. We fight about _literally_ everything, Seungcheol. There’s not a thing in the world that we couldn’t start an argument over anymore.”

“We fight because you never listen,” Seungcheol says, and it’s filled with spite. They’ve been doing a lot of this blaming thing recently, projecting their problems onto another and tossing their issues around like a smoke bomb about to go off, because anything is infinitely easier than just giving up and admitting that their relationship has stopped working.

“I don’t have to listen to you, Seungcheol, that’s the thing. Has it ever occurred to you that maybe you don’t have the right to go around dictating what I can and can’t do with my career, or my life?” Jeonghan spits back, in a tone of voice he never thought he would ever use towards Seungcheol.

“I never once tried to do that,” Seungcheol retorts, pushing the end of his spoon into the table. “Are you really so prideful that you’d rather constantly assume that I’m out to get you all the time, than admit to your own mistakes? It’s okay to apologize once in a while, Jeonghan, and maybe if you tried doing that we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

“It’s really sad that you would think of me in that way,” Jeonghan shakes his head, and turns to the framed picture of them at the end of the table. It was taken four years ago, in the spring. They’re standing in front of a large cherry blossom tree, Seungcheol’s arm slung around Jeonghan’s shoulder. They’re both grinning at the camera. Jeonghan can’t remember the last time they made each other happy like that.

“I’ve never pushed you to do anything you didn’t want to,” Seungcheol says, meeting Jeonghan’s eyes and glaring at him. “I’m just telling you that I’m getting real tired of being the only one who’s trying to make this relationship work.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jeonghan bites back.

“You know exactly what it means,” Seungcheol laughs bitterly, “a relationship is built from equal efforts, so it wouldn’t hurt you to try and match mine once in a while. Or at least acknowledge that I’ve made sacrifices for us.”

“We’re not fighting about this again,” Jeonghan scoffs, narrowing his eyes at Seungcheol. “Are you really going to sit here, look me in the eyes, and tell me I _haven’t_ made sacrifices for our relationship?”

Seungcheol opens his mouth, but Jeonghan cuts him off before he can respond. “You know what, don’t even answer that. Where are we supposed to go from here, Seungcheol? Because if we can’t even afford to give each other basic trust and respect, I don’t see a point in even trying anymore.”

And there it is, the point of no return. The smoke bomb goes off, and they step off the edge of the cliff.

“We give up,” Seungcheol says tiredly, pushing his bowl of untouched rice aside and standing up. “We give up on this, on _us._ ”

Jeonghan blinks, because he feels like somehow he’s supposed to feel something more than this. He’s angry and sad, but above all, he’s tired. Tired of trying, tired of how different things had become in such a short amount of time. He can’t even bring himself to cry, because no matter how much he can’t bear to admit it, this has become routine in their relationship: all the hate, the screaming, and the painful silences. _It’s sad,_ Jeonghan thinks to himself, _how you can love someone so much, just for them to become nothing more than a stranger._

“There’s this place called Lacuna,” Jeonghan draws in a sigh, following Seungcheol when he walks over to their couch. They sit on opposite ends, refusing to face each other. “They erase memories. People.”

Seungcheol just sits there for a minute, chest rising and falling, gripping at a throw pillow with a brown rabbit embroidered onto the fabric. Jeonghan had bought that for him in their first week of living together, because the rabbit’s toothy grin had reminded him of Seungcheol’s smile.

“Okay,” Seungcheol sighs, “you want us to erase each other?” He sounds so defeated, so tired, but there’s so much space between them Jeonghan couldn’t reach out to him even if he tried.

“Tell me if you think there’s anything left for us,” Jeonghan says, dragging his hand over his face. Seungcheol falls silent again, just stares at him with big, wet eyes, and Jeonghan smiles sadly because he knows exactly what Seungcheol doesn’t say. _If you think there’s anything worth saving, just say something, anything, and we can try again,_ he stares back, and in that moment there are a million unspoken words shared between them.

“That’s what I thought,” Jeonghan says quietly. “We can start over, you know? Forget about everything that went wrong. Forget each other. It’ll be good for us, starting over.”

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything. And maybe a tiny part of Jeonghan is still begging him to open his mouth, to grab his wrist and stop him from making this decision. Maybe a tiny part of him still wants to try. But Jeonghan’s given up on a lot of things in his life, and right now, Seungcheol’s silence speaks louder to him than any plea to stay ever could. The weight of their unspoken words crushes him to the bone.

“I can make an appointment for next week,” Jeonghan mutters, his voice starting to shake. “We’ll have to meet with the surgeon and a psychiatrist before they make the decision to operate. But after that, we’ll just continue on with our lives without the knowledge that our relationship ever existed. A fresh start.”

“Alright,” Seungcheol speaks up. His voice cracks at the last syllable. “Alright, Jeonghan, if that’s what you want. Like you said, it might be good to start over.”

He stands up then, swiping at his eyes, and when Jeonghan presses a hand to his own cheeks he feels wetness on his skin. He hadn’t even realized that he’d started crying.

“Okay, so we’ll do it,” Jeonghan says. His voice suddenly seems too loud and the lights in their shared apartment suddenly seem too bright. “We’ll forget.”

“We’ll forget,” Seungcheol repeats, and Jeonghan can see his tears falling down onto the white of their carpet. He so badly wants to reach out and comfort him, in the quiet way he always had before their relationship turned sour, but how could Jeonghan possibly ease Seungcheol’s hurt when he knew he was the one causing it?

Jeonghan sits there, tears like salt on his lips when he feels Seungcheol stop in front of him. His fingers curl around Jeonghan’s wrist, strong and familiar, and Jeonghan lets out a broken sob at the touch. 

“Just tell me one thing, Hannie, before you go,” Seungcheol says, letting go of Jeonghan’s wrist. _That’s the last time he’ll ever call me that,_ Jeonghan thinks. His skin is suddenly cold where Seungcheol’s fingers used to be.

“Why did you stop loving me?” Seungcheol asks, and Jeonghan’s heart aches. 

“I --,” He starts, staring up at Seungcheol sadly, but the other man turns around before Jeonghan can continue and retreats into the bedroom they once shared, shutting the door behind him.

Jeonghan’s feet take him to the front door of their apartment, and he’s out the door before his mind can even register anything beyond the ache in his chest and the hot tears still running freely down his face. It’s pouring outside, rain coming down in sheets as the wind howls through downtown Seoul. Jeonghan stares up at the ink-black sky, then at the pink welcome mat at their doorstep. Seungcheol had bought that for him after Jeonghan gave him that tiny rabbit pillow, the one still sitting on their couch. _Every time you buy me stupid decorative items, I’ll give you something ten times more obnoxious in return,_ Seungcheol had told him, and then they had joked about the value of novelty objects for the next ten minutes. 

“Cheol, I never stopped loving you,” Jeonghan says, to rumbling thunder and a sky void of stars. “I love you so much that I’ll forget you, if it means sparing you from the pain of having to love me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... whoops  
> anyways i hope you enjoyed this chapter :,) if you liked it please leave kudos or a comment, i'd love to hear your thoughts about how things are progressing!! plus seeing the support always motivates me to write :p <3 ty for reading!!


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